Botellón
by TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: John Watson enjoyed the thrum of an excited crowd after a good Football Match, but he enjoyed watching Sherlock -who usually didn't drink anything more than a glass of wine- enjoy the crowd more. Well, enjoying booze first, probably, and then the crowd.


**I'm sorry guys, these just keep coming. I might make a mini-series out of them eventually. But for right now they're just a good way to relieve stress from my finals, moving, and all the other crap I'm dealing with in the last week of school before summer.  
**

**Also, I should mention, I don't know squat about Football leagues or rivalries or anything like that. I hardly know about American Leagues, because our country down-plays Soccer/Football a lot and I think that's a shame. I do know that the one time I was in Italy and someone important won their Football match, the world went nuts and you couldn't move in the streets. I assume it is similar in other places, and I know that Football is pretty important Sport-wise in other places of the globe. Hopefully London likes a good celebration, otherwise I'll feel like a ridiculous Twat. **

**This was just for fun. But please, if I botch it, let me know and tell me how to correct it. Help.  
**

* * *

**Botellón: **

(Spanish): A gathering in which people meet in a street or a public area in order to consume alcohol. Literally, "big bottle."

**xXx**

Most parties of this nature started off in a good way.

Well, with good intentions, anyways.

But the road to Hell is paved with them, or so the saying goes.

So, like many others before it's time, this party had started out when England's Football Team beat Spain one to nothing in their home field on National Television. Wembley Stadium's roaring cheers had then quickly spread both my word of mouth and the delight of the public broadcast all over much of the country, and indeed much of the greater part of London as well. Everywhere, people were coming out of their homes and into the streets, bringing themselves, food, children, parents, guests, party supplies, footballs, and most importantly, liquor. Neighbors mingled, children played with over-sized footballs up and down the sectioned off streets, enemies spoke cordially, and even certain sport-ignorant Consulting Detectives came out of their shell enough to enjoy the festivities that everyone seemed to be partaking in down in front of the nearest pub.

It was how Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes ended up near the corner pub, drinking beer with Lestrade and a few other officers from the Yard, on that lovely Fall night. Each of them bundled up in all manner of gear, jerseys and scarves alike coloring the mass of people gathered for the same reason to celebrate.

Minus Anderson, of course. Lestrade knew better than to invite him to anything he and Sherlock attended.

Because not even John expected a good old-fashioned block party to cure all ills.

Football was not the only reason for the gathering, however, and soon the party (which had originated as members of a proud nation joining one another in good-natured celebration out in public) had wound itself up into a proper going Party. As in the capital 'P' Party -yes, homemade fireworks, bathtub brews, and all. By this point, it was less about Football and more about the booze, the people, and the quickly escalating pulse of the beat of life around them all. Not even Sherlock was daft enough to miss something this huge on the scale of unsaid human interaction, and had from somewhere produced a plastic cup of what John thought strongly to be grape juice. Because he knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't really drink. Sure, he'd have the occasional beer with Lestrade at the pub, or even a glass of wine when his brother Mycroft grew insufferable enough to force them into his dinner plans, but Sherlock didn't drink anymore than that.

It was why John didn't suspect anything when Sherlock started to refill his cup more and more often.

At first.

So if Sherlock was throwing anything other than grape juice back that fast, this little get-together had just grown very interesting. Not that it hadn't been already, of course, but nothing had more potential for explosive entertainment than something to do with Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective.

And probably dangerous...

More than probably, actually.

Make that most definitely.

Later, when John heard Sherlock speaking perfect Spanish with a lisp, he couldn't help but bust down into almost hysterical sobs of laughter. Because Spanish could not be anymore entertaining than when it was coming out of a drunk Sherlock's inebriated lisp, the scene made complete with the fact that Sherlock had divested Lestrade of his team scarf and some unfortunate soul of their rather large bottle of cheap wine. Apparently it hadn't been grape juice after all. John couldn't resist, and Lestrade was all too willing to once more photograph and tape Sherlock as he had several slurred conversations with the wine bottle, whom he had dubbed Heathcliff. Later, Heathcliff would wind up wearing the scarf Lestrade had given to Sherlock, until both of them were slumped together at a barstool positioned next to the Pub's outside window, sharing the warmth from the heated glass, the booze blush, and a very long scarf, speaking Spanish in very hushed tones punctuated with brief moments of dazed silence.

And so what if a few of those photos made their way onto John Watson's hard drive later -much later- the next day?

As long as Sherlock never found them, everything would be alright.


End file.
